I didn’t get picked. No invite to the ball. Which means, I must take my own advice from last month. And pick myself. Again.
In the World
Our lane, outside our house, in blackberry season, leads me to remember the mother that I thought I’d be. You know the one: the mum who ushers her children out the door with baskets swinging on their arms…
It’s your own foot coming down on the rope that pulls it taut. It isn’t weight-bearing, until your weight makes it so. I know this from teaching aerial – the trick, if there is one, is to let go in order to hold on- in order to be held.
My father used to speak to the cat in German, his mother tongue, which he never used to address us, his children…Because the cat didn’t talk back – the cat didn’t know or care about the war, about Jewishness or citizenship’s lost or found. The cat just wanted bits of chicken….
I am astonished and humbled by how many other novels there are in the world, but it also astonishes me how little I know about how other writers write them….. I want to counter this trend and risk revealing all….Here goes – here’s how I wrote my novel….
If inside every transition is hidden the same sadness and fear – grief at what is being left and terror of what’s coming – I am not surprised my children howl. What might help us?